


Masque's Off!

by Checkerboards



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2020-12-31 14:09:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21147017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Checkerboards/pseuds/Checkerboards
Summary: Ah, Halloween. Time for candy, parties, and total psychological meltdowns courtesy of Jonathan Crane. What could be better? The party planners of Gotham have some ideas that the Scarecrow's not going to like...





	1. This Isn't Halloween

The rogues of Gotham should not own televisions. If they do own televisions, they should not watch the news. And if they do watch the news, they should keep their weapons safely locked away on the other side of the room. Countless innocent television sets had died violent, fiery deaths because all rogues shared one particular thought process: when the news is bad, destroy the television.

This ancient television had just joined their ranks. A rather large book of Freudian theory was lodged firmly in its shattered screen like a toad in a hole. Sparks flew out around it, singeing the cover and threatening to set the carpet on fire.

The owner of the ex-television was stalking angrily back and forth across the floor. How _dare_ they? How dare they even _think_ of...of...of _castrating_ Halloween! The usual report on how safe Halloween was going to be this year was one thing. They said that every year, and every year he made liars out of them. But when the reporter had turned a charming smile to the camera and invited all and sundry to a public Halloween party, a party that purposefully was excluding anything frightening, a party where even scary _costumes_ weren't allowed in the door..._well_. It was unacceptable.

Jonathan Crane, self-styled Master of Fear, God of Terror, and High Potentate of Panic (okay, maybe not so much the last one) slammed a skinny fist down onto the back of the couch. Halloween _was_ fear. If those...those _cretins_ were allowed to continue with this ridiculous plan of theirs, where would he be? The world _needed_ fear. The world needed to know that out there in the dark, something was watching you, and it was_ hungry_.

He'd had enough of milksop worriers bubble-wrapping everything. They even censored his favorite horror movies on cable! He watched them for a _reason_ (if you had asked him what that reason was, his response would have been 'research', but if you'd delved into his mind, the answer would come up 'guilty pleasure'), and by god, he wanted his money's worth! (Well, if he had actually paid, which he hadn't. He was 'borrowing' cable from a building down the way whose landlady broke into a cold sweat these days when she even thought the word 'television'.)

Even the mass-produced costumes this year were disturbingly devoid of anything that would strike terror into the hearts of mankind. Pirates? Jedi? _Fairies_? Where were the demons, the ghouls, the monsters? Even that stupid little puppet from Saw would be better than nothing...

The book resting in the wreckage of the television set quietly burst into flames. With a frustrated sigh, the Scarecrow retrieved it, tossing it from hand to hand as he scurried to the sink. He took a perverse pleasure in watching Freud's bearded little face go crispy-fried before turning the water on.

They wanted a Halloween without fear, did they?

Well, they weren't going to get it. Not while _he_ was around. And as soon as he put out the fire in the sink, and the one around the television, and the one flaring up the curtains, he'd do something about it. Yes. Right after he was certain he hadn't doomed himself to a fiery death.

* * *

The Scarecrow examined himself briefly in the bathroom mirror. He looked ridiculous, which was all to the better for this particular plan despite the cringe that shot up his spine whenever he met his own eyes in the mirror.

He'd dismissed the idea of planting gas bombs at the party from the very beginning. They were certain to inspect the place beforehand. Knowing Batman's penchant for unearthing things he shouldn't, and knowing that the Bat seemed to enjoy nothing more than force-feeding him a faceful of his own fear gas, he wouldn't be surprised if all of them were delivered back to his lair to explode when he was least expecting it. Besides, what little fun he had in this life was generally had among the terror-filled hordes as he reveled in their screams...Yes, this party definitely required the personal touch.

The personal touch, however, was exponentially more complicated than simply hiding a few gas bombs under the floorboards. He needed a way to simultaneously gas hundreds of people. An army of masked henchmen bearing gas canisters would suffice, but it would also be far too suspicious, never mind the fact that he hated working with idiot henchmen who didn't know how to work a simple valve. The only answer he could think of was this: party favors. Everyone takes one, everyone gets gassed. It would mean round-the-clock work for two weeks to get them ready, but it would be worth it.

He'd been so busy that he hadn't remembered he needed a fake costume until three days before the party. Originally, his plan had been to wear his costume underneath another, shedding the top layer when the time had come to strike in order to reveal the full glaring glory of the Scarecrow amongst the partygoers. But the supply of costumes this late in the season was dwindling fast, and the number of full-masked costumes was almost zero. The handful of costume shops that he'd called had suggested things such as _silly moose_ and _fuzzy duck. _If he hadn't been on such a tight schedule, he'd have dropped by and personally introduced them to his new toxin. Fuzzy duck, indeed!

He'd gotten his hands on a flyer advertising the party with hopes of coming up with some costume that walked the line between scary and non-threatening enough to let him in the door, preferably one with easy-to-find components. There were no costume suggestions, but the bottom half of the flyer was a list of costumes that were certainly not permitted. His eyebrows raised in astonishment as he saw every single costume idea he'd had laid out neatly in a row amongst the other forbidden regalia. Whoever had planned this party had tried to make certain that nothing even remotely scary got inside. Even the flying monkeys from the Wizard of Oz were there, sandwiched between Hannibal Lecter and Pennywise the Clown.

Seeing that, however, had given him a marvelous idea. He'd go to the party as...the Scarecrow of Oz! It was brilliant, particularly since it meant he wouldn't have to paw through racks of dimestore costumes alongside screaming children to find something acceptable. He had a large assortment of old costumes in storage in a lair across the city, after all, and it wouldn't be that hard to make a new mask that looked cheerful.

And now he stood in his chosen costume, adjusting the sleeves and re-tying the belt for the third time in as many minutes. This particular costume wasn't technically his. He'd stolen the clothes off of an actual scarecrow a few years ago when he'd needed a costume in a hurry. (There was something not quite right about facing off with the Batman in one's pajamas. Far better to wear actual clothes, even if they were dyed in sickeningly bright colors and sported cheerful patches in red and blue on the knees.) The whole outfit was at least six sizes too big for him and flapped off of his lean form like a priest's robe.

Still...he glanced back at the pile of discarded costumes. He wouldn't make it past the door in any of them. If the tattered and somewhat distinctive cut of them didn't tip someone off, the various bloodstains, burns and slashes certainly would. In fact, even his current costume was lightly scorched, but it wasn't noticeable unless you got close enough to it.

He settled his mask over his head. _His_ mask, not the quickly-stitched beaming atrocity sitting on the sink, but the slit-eyed crumpled patchwork that was his trademark. The breath mask inside bounced gently off of his lips as he settled it in place. It was going to be stiflingly hot when he put the other mask on top of his own, but some things had to be endured. He had no intention of gassing _himself_ at the party, after all, and attacking people while wearing an idiot grin certainly wasn't what _he_ was known for. The happy mask would come off when the time was right.

He looked himself over again. Actually, he mused, the addition of his battered old mask lent a certain creepy _something_ to the outfit, like a child's baby doll with a knowing smirk on its face.

He was wasting time. Resigned, he sighed and tugged the second mask down over his own, turning away from the mirror before he had to see himself in such a travesty. He knew his own mask wouldn't show through the one on top - he'd made the eye holes so small that he himself could barely see out of them, and the mouth had been sewn shut all the way across in a goofy smile - so there was no need to submit himself to the sight of this...this _bizarro-land_ Scarecrow for even a moment.

He picked up his green backpack full of favors and headed for the door. It was party time.

(_to be continued_)


	2. A Rope of Sand

Many people throughout history have theorized that there's something in Gotham's water that triggers a certain thought: _Costumes. What a good idea._ How else could anyone explain the horde of costumed lunatics on both sides of the law wreaking havoc across the city? The Unabomber didn't need a costume. Charles Manson didn't need a costume. Ed Gein didn't need a costume (though he had several in storage for special occasions). But it seemed that the very instant anything psychologically noteworthy happened among the citizens of Gotham, they were in a costume faster than you could say 'knife'. (Or 'put down the knife', or 'please don't stab me in the face', or even 'AAAAIEEEE!')

So the citizens of Gotham had evolved a standoffish relationship with people in costumes. The concept of survival of the fittest had weeded out those elements of society that teased people in silly clothes, since it's difficult to reproduce when said people in silly clothes have made you very dead in a variety of painful ways.

This meant that, unlike certain other cities across America, Gotham City was a fairly safe place on Halloween night. Not that it was safe enough for, say, kids to go trick-or-treating alone, but it was safe enough for Jonathan Crane in his silly suit to get to the party without being mugged. He was there now, lurking in the mouth of an alley, gathering his courage for the monumental task ahead.

Professor Crane was not a stupid man. He knew that of all the events that had ever been held in Gotham, a Halloween party that claimed to hold no fear was possibly the most obvious target he would ever hit. He knew that this party would be watched by the cops and the vigilantes. (However, he also knew that a handful of other rogues were out making trouble tonight, so at least not _all_ of the vigilantes would be focused on him.) And most of all, he knew they'd be watching for a lanky, tall man in a scarecrow costume lurking around the edges of things and hiding in the shadows.

Which is what he was doing now, of course, but that was different. Sort of. He flicked a bit of dirt from his shoulder and tightened his belt. His camper's backpack was snugged close around his shoulders, with the waist strap clipped firmly around himself so that it wouldn't shift about.

This was it.

With a totally uncharacteristic squeal of laughter, he swung himself into a cartwheel and whirled toward the door. The guards at the door (a giant sphere of a man dressed in a furry plaid suit with a bushy beard and wig and a tough-looking lady in a frizzy wig and black robes) gave him a suspicious glance as he skidded to a halt at their feet, miming great surprise and shock that they were there. They were obviously cops. He fumbled in a pocket and brought out two of his party favors, presenting them in his gloved hands as a knight presents his sword to his king.

The man grabbed him by the arm and yanked his sleeve up, acting surprised when he saw nothing but skin. He rubbed it suspiciously, examined his fingertips, and then waved Crane through. "I thought he mighta been the clown!" he protested to his partner, who was shooting him a dirty look. They'd thought he was the Joker! Clearly, the disguise was working.

Crane exaggeratedly slumped his shoulders and kicked a toe in the dirt, still offering the favors. The woman took one and elbowed the man hard in the gut. He took one too. They each clipped the little pumpkin necklaces (filled with compressed fear gas, naturally) around their necks. The Scarecrow drew himself upright and danced his way into the mass of people inside.

He'd hide in plain sight, in the middle of the crowd, acting like a clown. It would be one of the hardest things he'd ever done. He did not _clown about_. He rarely even smiled, if it came to that. But didn't that make this the perfect cover? Who would suspect grim little Jonathan Crane to be inhabiting the form of what appeared to be a living cartoon?

A living _silent_ cartoon. It was bad enough that he had to play the fool. He refused to try and make jokes along with it. (Not that he would have been able to, even if he'd tried. Everywhere he looked at this party, he saw something that made him angry. In the mood he was in, even the knowledge that other people existed was enough to infuriate him.)

He slipped the backpack off and let it dangle from one hand, passing out pumpkin necklaces as quickly as he could. He didn't want to have to spend any more time in this ridiculous costume than he had to. He ached to sneak up behind people and surprise them, or lean close and whisper intimations of imminent doom into their ears. But he couldn't, or he'd blow his cover.

Instead, he threw himself grimly into the art of the mime. He tucked necklaces into open hands, clipped them quietly around unsuspecting necks, and wrapped them around outstretched wrists. In the rare case where someone didn't want a necklace, he twisted his body about until it almost screamed with pitiful, pleading despair and followed them around until they took one. (He was very, very familiar with that pose, though he normally saw it on other people nowadays.) And when it was time to confront the dancers near the speakers, he took an almost savage pleasure in mocking them, flailing his limbs in a grotesque parody of their dancing (which was, admittedly, pretty grotesque without his interference).

Finally, exhausted, he leaned casually on the wall by the refreshment table. The punch bowl glittered gleamingly at him, inviting him to take a deep drink and quench his thirst. He glared at it. He wasn't stupid enough to drink _anything_ at a party like this, let alone try and drink through two masks.

"Great costume!" Since he'd been hearing that remark all night, mostly directed at people who had nothing better to do with their time than painstakingly copy every exact detail of costumes from various movies, he ignored it. But then someone laid a hand on his shoulder and spun him around.

"Where'd you get it?" the girl asked him, looking him over with impressed eyes.

He blinked. She _liked_ this stupid set of rags?...oh, that explained it. She was dressed in a blue gingham dress with a basket over one arm that contained a small stuffed dog. There were odd touches to her Dorothy costume, though, that didn't fit with what he knew from the movie (and really, he didn't know much, because he'd never bothered to watch it). She had an odd jeweled cap on over her long pigtails, and silver shoes instead of red sparkly ones...

He realized she was waiting for an answer and tapped a forefinger on his mask's mouth, miming silence. _Can't talk, go away, you wretched child!_

"But the Scarecrow talks!" she said, crossing her arms defiantly. She had to be at least eighteen, far too old to adopt that petulant tone. "He says all sorts of stuff! He's the King of Oz!"

Well, _that_ was unexpected. He'd never been the king of anything, as far as he knew, except perhaps the King of Bruises. He tapped his lips again insistently, glaring at her through the mask's tiny eyeholes.

Suddenly, the girl looked embarrassed. "You mean you can't talk...at all?" she said in a small voice.

Salvation! He nodded once, sharply, and made as if to move away.

"No, wait!" she said, grabbing him by his sleeve again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. You can hang out with us tonight. It'll be great!" With that, she dragged him across the floor to her friends.

The Scarecrow tended to be antisocial in the same way that mountains tended to be large. Oh, sure, he'd associate with the other rogues when he had to, or when he wanted a game of chess inside Arkham, but that was just about all the social contact he wanted. He certainly didn't have any intention of being friendly with anyone _here,_ and yet this girl was babbling pleasantries at him while yanking him along by the arm.

He was seething inside. He had _work_ to do, and he had to go along with this girl and act happy because now half the crowd had seen him acting like a harmless, friendly idiot. If he dropped the act and tried to get away from her, they'd all know something was up. He didn't have _time_ for this. He still had half a bag of necklaces to hand out!

Speaking of which...When the girl finally dropped his arm to introduce him to her friends, he dug in his bag and extracted more necklaces. 'Dorothy' and her two friends (girls, from what he could tell - only girls would make that ear-piercing shriek when they saw something they liked) squealed and accepted them, putting them on and adjusting them so they hung just so over their costumes.

"Isn't he great?" Dorothy was gushing to her friends, the Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion. She turned to him expectantly. "Do that thing you did earlier!"

He stared blankly at her.

"That _thing_!" she said impatiently.

He shrugged. He did lots of _things_...breathing, walking, gassing girls with big mouths...

She smacked him playfully on the arm, making him instinctively flinch backward. She didn't notice. "When you were dancing! That thing on the floor!"

Oh, _that_. Well, he wasn't sure he could reproduce that particular move, mostly because he hadn't meant to do it. He'd gotten a little overconfident during the dance and his feet had gone out from under him. Panicked, he'd done an awkward twist-flip in midair to avoid landing on his left hip, where the remote control rested that would pop all the pumpkins.

Once was enough. He shook his head no.

"Oh, c'mon! It was fantastic!"

He waved an expressive hand at the cluster of people around him and mimed smacking them in the head as he danced.

"Spoilsport," she said, somehow managing to be cheerful and sullen at the same time. "So what _do_ you want to do?"

He didn't want to do _anything_ with them. But now that he thought about it...he lifted a necklace from his pack and presented it to a passerby. Turning back to the trio, he pointed first at the sack of necklaces, then at them.

"Sure, we'll help!" the Tin Man offered. They loaded up Dorothy's basket with the necklaces and scampered off into the crowd, leaving him alone at last. He picked up his bag (now much lighter) and turned to hand the man behind him a necklace.

Cape. A long, black cape wrapped around a tall figure filled his vision. Narrowed eyes glared down at him from below pointy ears. The bag in his suddenly limp fingers fell to the floor, showering pumpkins everywhere.

"Oh, dude, I'm sorry!" Batman said in a nasal voice. "I just wanted one of those for my girlfriend!"

Ah. Not Batman, then. Crane looked him over again, just to be sure. No, this weedy specimen was definitely not Batman. Batman didn't wear tennis shoes, or satin opera gloves, and he certainly didn't wear capes that looked like bedsheets covered in dryer lint. He swore to himself as he knelt to pick up the necklaces. Who had let someone dressed like _Batman_ in here? Wasn't the rule _no scary costumes_? Whoever had decided that Batman wasn't scary was in _serious_ need of a late-night confrontation with him, alone in an alley, shoulderblades digging into a brick wall as the Dark Knight aimed a fist directly at their face...

"We're back!" O joyous day. He stuffed the last of the necklaces into the bag and rose to his feet. 'Batman' had disappeared, clutching a handful of necklaces and calling for his girlfriend. The girls were beaming at him as Dorothy triumphantly displayed her basket, once more empty of everything but little toy Toto.

"Come on, Scarecrow!" she said, grabbing his arm yet again and dragging him across the room. "Picture time!" They were clearly headed for a cameraman's backdrop located just across from the dance floor.

He held up a finger and lifted one more necklace from the bag. With a flourish, he tied it carefully around the stuffed dog's neck. The girls giggled. With luck, Dorothy would have that basket nice and close to her when he popped the pumpkins, close enough so that the second necklace would ensure her a good twelve hours of abject fear.

With that pleasant mental image screaming in his head, he allowed himself to be towed across the floor.

(_to be continued_)


	3. Newton's Third Law

The Scarecrow's plan had been to pop the pumpkins open at midnight. He hadn't planned on this level of activity, though, and he was seriously contemplating calling it an early night. Clowning was hard work, particularly since it didn't come at all naturally to him. Even his feet in their rough cloth shoes were throbbing. He was exhausted.

The three girls had taken it upon themselves to make sure the poor mute scarecrow had a good time. They'd dragged him around the party, forcing him to participate in all the stupid little activities they came across.

Well, nearly all of them. Dorothy had been the only one to go bobbing for apples, since she was the only one not painted or masked, and for some reason the Tin Man...er...Woman hung back when it was time to have their fortunes told. (The fortune-teller had assured the Scarecrow that he'd have great success in a professional enterprise soon and had given him a funny look when he nodded enthusiastically at her.)

The necklaces were gone. More people had attended the party than he'd planned on, and some had already left with their necklaces still around their necks. Well, at least he'd get most of them, he consoled himself as the girls yammered on about all the other costumes. Maybe some of them would still be in range of the signal from the remote when the time came. Yes, there'd be fear in the streets...

Dorothy was shaking his arm again. Lips clenched tightly with anger, he deliberately peeled her fingers off of him and firmly placed the offending hand at Dorothy's side. "It's almost time for the costume contest!" she exulted, grabbing his hand. "Let's go get a good spot by the stage!"

With an internal sigh of disgust, he followed her across the crowded floor. After the contest winners were announced, he thought, he'd press the button and then get home. He was so tired that he wasn't even certain he could manage to run away if the Batman showed up, and that was dangerous, bordering on suicidal. He'd rest during the contest and then he'd have some real fun.

The crowd compressed around him until he barely had enough space to stand in. A rag doll's yarn wig brushed teasingly along his arm. A bird-like thing behind him kept poking him in the neck with its beak, rubbing the rough cloth of his mask against his skin and making him think of the itchy neck of Arkham's straitjackets. He was not amused.

He suffered through the endless round of awards for Best Original Costume, Best Re-creation, Best Individual Costume...they all blurred together into one big lump of _who cares?_ in his head. Crane waited impatiently for the moment when it would all be over. The crowd would disperse a bit, he'd get near the door, and then the _real_ festivities of the evening could begin. Dorothy suddenly started bouncing nervously on her toes as the MC approached the microphone again.

"Will the following groups please come to the stage," the speakers blared. "Arnold Rimmer and the Red Dwarf crew..." Cheers erupted from his left as a pair of men in khaki uniforms, one of them badly stained, clambered up onto the stage accompanied by a girl in red, a robot, and a man in a zebra-striped coat. "Rincewind, Sam Vimes, and the Lancre Coven..." Four witches in various stages of roundness fought their way through the crowd, tailed by a man in battered armor and knee britches and a tattered wizard in red. "The Ricardos and the Mertzes..." A pair of couples that looked as if they'd strolled straight out of the fifties helped each other up onto the little raised platform, which was now almost filled to capacity. "And last but not least, Dorothy Gale, the Tin Man, the Cowardly Lion and the Scarecrow!"

He froze as Dorothy squealed directly into his ear. She forced her way through the crowd and looked over her shoulder to make sure he was following her.

He wasn't. He wasn't with them, he wasn't competing in a costume contest, and he wasn't about to get up on stage in this ridiculous set of rags so everyone could gape at him. "Come on!" she yelled to him over the noise of the crowd.

"Yeah, go on, Scarecrow!" The crowd reached out to help him on his way. A forest of eager hands pulled at his clothing and gently shoved his back, steering him toward the stage. Panicked, he tried to brush them away, but the swarm of gloved and painted hands was unstoppable. The crowd finally let him go as his kneecaps connected softly with the edge of the stage.

In one swoop, the trio of girls had him by the arms and pulled him up onto the stage. He straightened his shirt and tried to look as dignified as possible as they jostled into their spot between Sam Vimes and Arnold Rimmer.

The remote in his pocket bounced gently against his leg as he shifted away from the fictional copper. Anyone who chose to dress as the Commander of the Watch was someone he was not anxious to get close to. "Fourth place goes to..." the announcer called, waving his bit of paper. "The cast of I Love Lucy!" The foursome shrugged good-naturedly, accepted their certificates, and returned to the crowd. Ah, now there was some breathing room...The three groups spread out a little bit more.

"Third place goes to...the crew of Red Dwarf!" Five more people got their certificates and trotted back to their spots. The Scarecrow shifted position once again, hoping no one noticed the remote swaying wildly in his pants. The lining in the pockets must be going, he thought. He hoped it held out until the end of the ceremony.

"Second place goes to..." The MC made a show of squinting at the paper. _Bastard_, the Scarecrow thought, and it was only then that he realized he actually cared who won this contest. It hadn't seemed important before he was in the running for first. Still, how could his little group win over that other group, who had obviously ransacked their source material for every little nuance of detail they could come up with? Nothing of theirs looked like it had come from a store. The man in armor was even carrying some kind of elaborate hand-made dragon puppet!

The announcer beamed madly from his post behind the microphone. "Discworld! Which means first place goes to the happy folk of Oz!" he screamed over the crowd's roar of approval.

This...no. No, this sort of thing did not happen to him. He'd never won anything in his life. There was clearly some sort of mistake, which would explain why the crowd was going wild. Oh, of course, he was with three relatively attractive girls. _That_ explained it quite nicely. He lingered behind as they stepped forward to accept their prizes.

Dorothy glanced back at him, eyes aglow with pure pride and happiness. "Get up here, Scarecrow!" she called to him as a cheerful lady in cat ears draped a plastic medal around his neck.

He hesitated. Should he?

"Scare-_crow_," she insisted, pointing firmly at the floor next to her feet.

Someone in the front row heard her. "Scare-_crow_!" she called approvingly, running satin-covered fingers over her pumpkin necklace. The young man next to her, a set of pumpkin necklaces dangling from his huge deer antlers, joined in. "Scare-_crow_!" More and more people were picking up the chant now, making the room echo with the sound of his name screamed to the rafters. "Scare-_crow_! Scare-_crow_! Scare-_crow_!"

They...they were _serious_? They were cheering for _him_? This was impossible. This was insane. He was clearly in some kind of hallucinatory state.

What the hell. Who cared if he was hallucinating? This was _fantastic_. For the first time in his life, Jonathan Crane basked in unadulterated approval. Maybe he wouldn't gas the crowd after all. With a smile that matched the one on his mask nearly cracking his face in half, he stepped forward to join the group, glowing with joy.

It was at this perfect, shining moment that his belt chose to give way, sending his pants down to puddle ludicrously around his ankles. He stumbled over them, spilling to the ground in a heap of lanky limbs.

A shocked silence fell over the crowd. Then, as one, they roared with laughter. Even Dorothy and her friends joined in, clutching one another as they giggled.

Ah, now _here_ was something he was familiar with. The searing pain of humiliation burned across his mind, scorching away any bit of temporary happiness he'd experienced. What had he been thinking? Going along with this costumed charade as if he actually cared, even getting to the point where he'd considered _not_ carrying out his plan? Madness. He boiled with anger as he fought his treacherous clothing. When he'd finally hauled the pants back up to where they were supposed to be, he savagely yanked on the belt until it almost cut the circulation off to his legs.

The crowd was still howling with hilarity. To them, this wasn't a man humiliated at a rare moment of triumph. It was just that silly, clownish scarecrow taking a pratfall to amuse them, and they showed their appreciation by laughing hard enough to bring tears to their eyes.

He pulled the remote out of his pocket. He'd teach them to laugh at him, oh yes, they would _pay_. Behind the masks and face paint he saw every person who had ever tormented him, the ones who had turned his childhood into a nightmare and his adulthood into a perpetual loop between Arkham and his laboratory. With a look of primal fury on his face, he pressed the button.

Nothing happened.

He pressed it again. Harder. He slammed the heel of his hand into the button.

Nothing happened.

Useless. The goddamn remote had broken when he'd fallen on it. He smacked it, pummeling it with his fist and swearing at it to do what he'd designed it for, goddamn it. The tiny pumpkins around nearly everyone's necks failed to burst in an explosion of delicious fear.

Fine. He threw the remote down onto the floor. A loose battery quietly clicked back into place as the small device connected with the boards of the stage. In a fit of pure pique, burning with hate for everyone and everything around him, the Scarecrow brought his foot down hard on it.

The button depressed, and the sound of a thousand popping pumpkins accompanied the sound of a shattering remote driving shards of plastic deep into the sole of his foot. He shrieked, a sound which normally he would have been embarrassed to emit. Thankfully, it was covered by the sound of hundreds of other shrieks and screams as the fear toxin kicked in.

The Scarecrow ripped off his useless, cutesy mask and revealed himself for what he truly was. (Not that it mattered, since the room was full of people in outlandish costumes being warped into terrifying monsters by his fear gas.) No-one even glanced in his direction.

Crane sank sullenly to the floor. He drew his injured foot into his lap and examined it through the holes in his shoe, picking plastic out of his skin as fear-crazed partygoers rampaged around him. The podium exploded in a shower of splinters as a terrified Lucy Ricardo hurled it at a cowering Arnold Rimmer. He glared through narrowed eyes at Dorothy and her friends who were shrieking and beating someone dressed as a gorilla senseless.

When he'd finished, he leaped lightly off of the stage and shoved his way through the whimpering horde of jackanapes. He slammed the door to the outside open and stomped past the two quivering cops on the doorstep. What a waste of an evening.

"Happy Halloween, indeed," he muttered to himself, tearing the cheap plastic medal from his chest and flinging it carelessly into the alley. It glinted sadly in a puddle as he stalked away.


End file.
